


new magic

by flightagain



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Genie Castiel, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-10
Updated: 2014-11-26
Packaged: 2018-02-12 15:18:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2114802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flightagain/pseuds/flightagain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean finds a genie in a thrift store. There are unforeseen complications.</p><p>on a hiatus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the lovely stardustpaths for looking over the fic for me!

Dean finds the lamp in a thrift store.

He's with Charlie, and they're looking for costumes and props. They're searching through hats and jackets, jewellery and scarves, knick-knacks and statuettes. Anything that might be a fit for the play. Officially, Charlie's in the tech crew and Dean's on set design, helping out with the carpentry side of things. But it's a small community theater, and it turns out that everyone is basically involved in everything. 

In a corner at the back of the store, Dean's inspecting a statue of a tiny frog wearing a fancy vest. He holds it up to eye level, trying to get a good look at its startled little face, and that's when he spots the lamp. It's on a shelf just past the animal statues, and it's half-covered by a star-dotted navy scarf. The lamp isn't very big. It's got a definite Aladdin style to it, but it's a dull bronze, undecorated, not actually all that eye-catching at all. Dean notices it all the same.

It wouldn't really work as a prop, he thinks. It wouldn't make much sense. He can picture Linda's unimpressed face already. But it's not as though Dean has to buy it for the _play_. Not if he doesn't use the props budget. 

He frowns to himself. He walks over and picks up the lamp.

It’s surprisingly heavy, a good weight in his palm. It's cold, too; it feels colder than it should do, actually. Colder than would make sense. 

Dean kind of wants to keep it.

He doesn't know why. It's just a lamp, only a lamp, no use to him at all. But Dean buys it while Charlie's distracted, while she's busy listening to one of those singing fish belt out _Call Me Maybe._

\--

He leaves the lamp on his dresser. It sits there, out of place amongst the DVDs and paperbacks, the scattered photos of Dean and Sam, Bobby and Jody, Ellen and Jo. The framed photo of Dean and his mom, a long time ago.

Work is busy that week, everyone finishing up an ad for Roman's team of assholes. Victor, Meg, and Dean work their usual miracles, and they somehow find a balance between what Roman wants and what actually looks good. And after work each day, Dean goes to the Roadhouse or the theater, has some drinks or helps out with sets and running errands for Linda. 

He likes the Roadhouse. He likes seeing Ellen and Jo, getting a table with Charlie and Dorothy. It’s familiar in the same way that Bobby’s house is familiar, and the Impala is, too: part of his childhood, the homes that he had back then. The ones that he still has now.

The theater's pretty fun, too. Everyone's always busy, everyone's loud and rushing around, constantly chatting to one another. Dean only knew Charlie when he joined, but he knows a lot of people now: Ava and Ellie, Tracy and Chuck, Linda and Ruby. There’s always someone to talk to, even if it’s Garth. And this is the first production Dean’s worked on, but he can see himself continuing on. Until it's a place that he really knows. Something else familiar. 

Over the week, he doesn't think much about the lamp at all. Except he keeps trying to remember the plot to Aladdin, and he has that crappy _Airplanes_ song running constantly through his head. Dean only knows the chorus. It's a problem. Thursday evening, he's painting a black backdrop for the play, and he suddenly realizes that Ava and Tracy can both hear him going, "Wish right now, wish right now..." under his breath. He thinks that he might've been doing it for a while. They’re both wearing strange smiles when he looks up.

"Shut up," Dean tells them. But they're already laughing.

Later, he heads back to his apartment. Everything is quiet and still. Everything is exactly how it was when he left it that morning. It's been that way since Sam moved out, packing up and heading out to California with Amelia. 

Dean heats up some leftover lasagna and crashes in front of the television. He thinks about texting somebody, but instead he stares at his phone and imagines that he can hear all the silence that's around the current episode of Suits. There's the sound of the TV, he thinks, and then there's the sound of the silence around it. A totally different thing. Possibly louder.

When Sam moved out, Dean had been pretty invested in thinking about the positives. No more getting woken up at inhumane morning hours; no more oatmeal and dried fruit; no more ridiculous hair left all over the shower. Dean could watch all the shows he wanted. He could listen to his records, have gaming nights in the living room. It would be great. He’d been confident that it would be great.

It's been a few months now, and Dean is a lot less sure.

He's alone here, is the thing. It shouldn't be a big deal. He's had this apartment for a long time now, and it's still the same kind of cheap that he needed before he got the advertising gig. So the rent's easily covered, even with Sam gone. And it's not like Dean's life isn't generally awesome. Great job, great friends, awesome family. 

It's just that he comes home and it's only him here. Just Dean and the quiet. And that's good for some people, sure, but Dean doesn't think that it's good for him.

The TV goes to commercials. Dean sets his plate on the coffee table and realizes that he's been humming to himself. It's B.o.B a-goddamn-gain, and he has got to do something about it. He just has to. It's the lamp, he knows. It's putting the idea in his head, sticking the song in there too. Aladdin, _Airplanes_ , all this crap about wishes.

Dean gets up from the couch, and he walks into his bedroom to stare at the dresser. 

On the walk in he'd been thinking, why did I even buy that thing? Why did I even bother? A random lamp from a random store, and Dean's put it on his dresser like it matters. But he stands in front of it now, and he wants to keep it there. He does. It's a sudden, heavy feeling. An important feeling.

He also wants, he thinks, just to try. Just to try a wish.

He's in his room, the apartment empty around him, a stupid song on loop in his head. And he feels kind of silly, kind of ridiculous. But it's not as though anyone's around to see him. 

Dean picks up the lamp and puts his palm flat against it. He draws slow circles across the cool bronze. 

The entire room lights up.


	2. Chapter 2

So the genie's name is Castiel.

He's a grumpy-looking dude in black dress pants and a white button-up shirt, shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows. He's got messy hair, a sharp jawline, some serious cheekbones going on. 

Dean had not actually expected a genie. He really, really had not. But if he had, he's pretty sure he wouldn't have imagined this.

There’s a minute or so where Dean freaks out a little. That happens. The genie - Castiel - spends this time peering around Dean's room, his face rapt with interest. He touches the edge of a photo. He picks up a book from the dresser. His hands are careful with it, like it's some kind of holy relic, some ancient thing. 

Then he starts watching Dean instead. His head tilts slowly to one side. By then, though, Dean's managed to pull himself together some. He's a goddamn Winchester, after all. This is what he tells himself. 

Once he's calm, that's when Castiel introduces himself. He starts listing some ground rules, the details to this whole genie thing. Three wishes, no resurrections, no murder or false love or changing the past. It goes on for a while, and Castiel says it all in this bored voice, the voice of a guy reading from a cue card. "No wishing for infinite wishes," he sighs, and he gives Dean an utterly flat look, like the idea could not be more tiring to him. 

"No problem, buddy," Dean says. He doesn't know why he says it; he doesn't know exactly what he's saying at all.

Castiel narrows his eyes.

"All right," he says. Then he just stands there, waiting. And Dean's brain is going way too fast in way too many directions. His thoughts are all ricocheting around, bouncing off of each other, impossible to get a grip on. Three wishes. Jesus Christ.

"Uh," he says, eventually. "Do I have to wish right away?"

"No."

Dean nods once, then again; Castiel keeps watching him. He has a very intense stare. He has very blue eyes.

Dean clears his throat. "Is there... a time limit?"

Castiel frowns at him. "No.” He says it really definitively this time, like he thinks maybe Dean needs to hear it that way.

"Well, all right then," Dean says. A little snippily, he can admit. But Dean's genie would be a grouchy fucker, he just would be. Dean looks at Castiel and he remembers seeing the lamp. He remembers the certainty, that weird, significant feeling. Now he's thinking, really? This dude? "So what do you do while I'm thinking about this?" he asks. "Squish yourself back in there?" He jerks his thumb in the direction of the lamp.

There's a pause.

"I can do that," Castiel says, at last. He glances back at it, where it's sitting on the dresser. His mouth is a small line.

"Yeah?" Dean says. He thinks about how Castiel had looked around Dean's room, totally fascinated; he thinks about the boredom in Castiel's voice, just a few moments before. "Or," Dean says slowly, because he's a total sucker, always has been, "or you don’t have to. We can just go watch TV or whatever."

"TV," Castiel repeats. His gaze sharpens, focusing back on Dean. "TV would be all right."

Dean smiles, kind of by accident.

\--

Castiel says that he doesn’t need to eat or sleep, doesn’t need to do anything like that at all. He spends the night on Dean's couch, watching the television on mute. Dean doesn't mention going into the lamp again. He isn't sure why.

That night, he's awake for a long time. Wishes, he’s thinking, three wishes. He tries to decide what he _wants_. He feels like it should be something big. Something life-changing. But he doesn’t know. His mind is one long, slow procession of ellipses. 

Dean doesn’t like it. So he tries to think about what Sam would want instead. Or Bobby, or Charlie or Jody. A guy gets three wishes, Dean thinks, he looks out for his family as well. 

At some point he falls asleep, and he dreams that he's standing in a garden, surrounded by neatly tilled soil. In the dream, Dean looks all around, and he really wishes that he had some gardening equipment. 

Castiel appears in front of him, wearing a straw hat and an incredulous expression. Dean wakes up with a jolt. 

He lies in bed and thinks, what the fuck. But then he remembers Castiel telling him about wish-granting, explaining that it's an automatic process. The words _I wish_ are the trigger, and if Dean completes that sentence aloud, then Castiel, wherever he is at the time, will grant the wish. 

So Dean decides to take the dream as a warning. _Be careful about this shit._

In the morning, he takes a shower and gets ready for work in his room. Then he stands in the tiny kitchen, eating his cereal, feeling stupidly awkward about the guy in the living room. Castiel, for his part, just keeps watching Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. He turns the volume back on when he sees that Dean's awake.

Eventually, Dean's hovering in the front doorway, suit jacket draped over one arm. "So, uh, you can watch TV, read some books while I'm gone," he says to Castiel. "Hang out wherever you want in here, I guess. _Not_ my room."

Castiel stares at him from the couch. "All right," he says, slowly. "Thank you."

"What?" Dean says. "No problem. Uh, and I'm home for the weekend obviously, so. So we'll figure stuff out after today, yeah?"

"Yeah," Castiel echoes, after a beat. It sounds like he's taking a guess that that's the correct response. Dean shifts his jacket to his other arm. He doesn't know any genie etiquette, but Castiel is looking at him in this curious way, his head tilted to one side again. Dean’s probably fucking this up somehow, then.

He stands there and nods a few times, slow and steady, like one of those bobblehead dogs in the back of cars. And then he says, "Okay, right, bye,” and he just gets out of there.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean is distracted at work. He's got emails and meetings to get through, but he’s busy worrying about leaving a genie unsupervised on his couch. Part of him’s thinking, what if that’s a bad move? What if Dean’s, like, offended a powerful magical being? And part of him’s really hoping Castiel won’t fuck with his record collection.

He spends a lot of time swiveling from side to side in his chair, trying not to panic.

When he gets home that evening, Castiel is watching cartoons.

He’s not sitting on the couch anymore; he’s sitting on the floor, leant back against it. Dean’s copy of _Fahrenheit 451_ is beside him.

Dean has a quick glance around. Everything seems totally fine, totally undisturbed. There's not a whole lot around, anyway; since Sam moved out, most of the stuff in the apartment is just in Dean’s room, other than the bookshelf. But it’s still good to see there’s not any wrathful plagues of locusts or whatever. Dean lets out a slow breath of relief.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says, without moving. Dean’s lips twitch upwards.

“Hey, Castiel.” He looks at the TV. It’s not a show that he recognizes. One of those newer cartoons, maybe. Dean thinks, vaguely, that he’ll have to introduce Castiel to the classics. “What’re you watching?”

“Foster’s Home for Imaginary Friends,” Castiel says. He glances over and adds, “It’s a story.”

“It - ?” Dean says, and stops. “Yeah,” he says.

“We can watch something else,” Castiel offers. He’s looking at Dean carefully. He presses the button for the TV's guide. “There’s a program about football. Or about Yellowstone National Park.” And he smiles, then. It’s small, the smile, it’s barely there, but something in Dean’s chest goes strange. It feels heavy, significant, like when he first saw the lamp. “I watched that one earlier,” Castiel tells him. “They introduced wolves, and it changed the entire park.”

“Yeah?” Dean says. He’d kind of been planning on heading right out again, actually. He doesn’t spend a ton of time here. It's boring by himself, and it's not like his gaming night idea ever really panned out. So usually he’s out at the Roadhouse or the theater, maybe to Charlie and Dorothy’s, anyplace where he might see the people he knows.

But tonight, he doesn’t do that. He walks over and sits on the couch instead. _On_ the couch, not in front of it, like certain weirdos. “That sounds cool,” he says.

\--

“So, hey,” Dean says. “What kind of shit do people usually wish for?”

It’s Saturday morning and they've gone to a diner for breakfast. It'd occurred to Dean that Cas had spent the last two nights on his couch with only a silent TV for company. He'd figured it was about time Cas got out of the apartment.

He’d been right. On the way out, Cas had stopped in the ground floor lobby, just to look around. He’d examined the mailboxes for a while, and then he’d read everything on the notice board.

“There’s a baking club,” he’d reported to Dean. “And a book club.”

“Yup,” Dean had said. Then he'd realized that he’d just been standing there the whole time, patiently waiting while Castiel read through the fire code and the noise complaints. “Hey,” Dean had said. “C’mon.”

Now they’ve got a booth at a diner, waiting on two orders of waffles and bacon. Cas had given Dean another of his strange looks, narrow and curious, when Dean had ordered him food as well. But Dean’s decided those looks aren’t a bad thing. He’s decided they’re all right.

Cas is thinking over Dean’s question. He tears open a salt packet and tips it out onto a napkin. He considers the mess. “Wealth,” he says finally, sounding bored again. “Means of attaining wealth.” He thinks about it for a second. “Better-paying jobs. Expensive items. Expensive journeys. Once,” he adds, his tone rising in hope, “a puppy.” He glances at Dean.

“A _puppy_?" Dean echoes. “Seriously?”

Castiel frowns. “Yes. It was a good wish.”

“For like, a ten-year-old.”

“She was nine.” At Dean’s grin, Cas’ eyes narrow. “What?” he says. “She liked the puppy. It made her happy." It’s surprisingly defensive; Cas’ chin is practically jutting out right now. And, Dean supposes, it’s not as though the guy doesn’t have a point.

“Hey, okay,” he says. “Puppies for whoever wants them, dude. But I rent. The building doesn’t allow animals.”

Cas’ fighting spirit seems to fade away. “Oh,” he says. "Right." He looks down at the salt again. “Well. Wealth, then. In different forms.” He pushes the napkin slowly to the side of the table, where it’s out of the way.

“Right,” Dean says.

It shouldn’t be so hard, deciding on this. Dean wonders if people have usually rattled out their three wishes by now. But he doesn’t know. He just doesn’t.

It’s not like he doesn’t have _ideas_ , of varying levels of ridiculousness: winning the lottery; a sudden rock star career; paying off his and Sam’s student loans, and fixing up the endless problems in Bobby’s creaky old house. But they're both on track to pay their loans already, and Sam has this whole independence thing going on about it. And Bobby, for all his bitching, totally enjoys the lifelong struggle to get his house into shape. Plus, Dean likes his current job, likes his life, mostly. Rock stars and lottery winners can get totally fucked up and miserable. Is it really worth the risk?

He thinks it might not be. He drums his fingers on the tabletop. “Well,” he says. “I’m going to think about this for a couple days. I wanna get it right. And you said no time limit, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Cas replies.

“Cool. So, game plan.” Dean raps his knuckles on the table, now. “Game plan is, I figure out the wishes, and in the meantime, we keep doing what we’re doing. I’ve got a spare room right now, so you can, uh, have a home base there if you’re sick of the couch. Put your lamp on the dresser or whatever, I don’t care. And if I’m still thinking on Monday, you can… roam free, I guess? While I’m at work. Don’t, like, do any magic, don’t run around shouting that you’re a genie. But if you’re just a guy wandering around the city, then that’s probably fine, right?”

Cas’ mouth is parted a little, Dean notices. His eyes are kind of wide.

“Right,” Cas says. “That – yes. Okay.” Then he just stares at Dean. Just stares, persistently. It’s like the first evening all over again. Dean shifts in his seat, the booth creaking awkwardly.

“Great,” he says. “So. We’ll do that.”

Their food arrives then, and pretty soon the weirdness of the situation fades: Dean’s too busy laughing at exactly how much Cas likes waffles.

\--

Dean will figure out the wishes soon, he thinks. He’ll use this weekend to have a good brainstorm; he’ll call up Sam and Bobby, throw out some clever hypotheticals.

He’ll probably have it done before work on Monday morning.

\--

“I’ve been watching your lawyer program,” Cas tells him, Wednesday evening. Cas has left a couple of crime novels on the coffee table, but he's currently reading, for whatever reason, the instruction manual for Dean's Xbox.

“Oh yeah?” Dean says. He dumps his jacket on the back of the couch. “Suits?”

“Yes,” Cas says. “There’s been a – marathon.”

Dean grins. Cas says a lot of words like that. Like he isn’t entirely sure that they’re the right ones. It makes Dean smile basically every time.

“You like it?” Dean asks him.

“No.”

“You – what?” Dean frowns. “Suits is – what – it’s great!”

“No,” Cas says again.

Dean opens his mouth, then closes it. Annoyingly fish-like. “You can’t just say _no_ , dude. That’s not an argument.”

“I’m not arguing,” Cas says. “I just don’t like it.”

“But _why_? Tell me why, so I can tell you why you’re wrong.”

Cas’ whole face scrunches up. “Why would I want to do that?”

“You – ” Dean starts. But he stops. Shakes his head, slowly. Genies. That was the thing. Just a whole other level. “Well, fine,” he says. “But I'm gonna show you a different show. Fuckin’ educate you, dude, you’ve got Home Edition rotting your brain.”

Cas looks hilariously offended. “No, I don’t.”

“Trust me, trust me, you do. Now.” Dean stands in front of his DVDs, all of them stacked on the second row of the bookshelf. He considers Dr. Sexy, but if Cas can’t appreciate Suits, then he might not be ready for that one yet. Firefly, maybe? Everyone likes Firefly. Dean figures it could be the litmus test of whether Cas will ever enjoy quality television. “Okay,” he says. He grabs the DVD, waves it in the air. “Firefly night, it’s decided.”

“Hm,” Cas says. Eyebrows raised, all judgy and doubtful.

“Shut up,” Dean tells him. “You’re gonna love it. You want to order a pizza?”

Cas blinks. He puts down the instruction manual. Dean stands there, holding the DVD, waiting.

Cas smiles at him, slow and surprised, and just kind of nice, actually. “Okay,” he says. “Let me read a menu first.”


	4. Chapter 4

Sometimes Dean regrets ever finding the lamp. He wishes that he’d never seen it, never gone into the store at all. He wishes that he’d never started any of this.

Like now, for instance. When Castiel is kicking his ass at Mario Kart.

“No one is good at this course,” Dean mutters, dark and angry. The little turtle is carrying him back onto the track, setting him down on Rainbow Road. Again. “Nobody – this one’s fucking impossible, okay?” 

“Okay,” Castiel says. He continues to casually, effortlessly stay in first place. Dean grips the controller a little bit too hard. It has no noticeable effect on his game play. 

He never gets first, but sometimes he does manage to hit Cas with a shell. Slow him down a little. Cas slides him these unimpressed looks, every time. His eyes narrowed right the way down.

“Oops,” Dean says, once, and feels pretty good about it.

When he finally has to call it a night, Cas looks around at him from his spot in front of the couch. He smiles.

“That was fun,” he says, and it’s a real smile, happy and relaxed. Kind of dorky, all gummy, all crinkles around his eyes.

And Dean thinks, Oh. Oh, shit.

“Uh,” he says. “Uh, yeah, it was.”

He busies himself with grabbing the Wii box, packing everything away. Castiel gets up to help.

“You have four controllers,” he observes, picking up another box, holding it up for Dean to see.

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Well, it’s a multiplayer game.” He glances at Cas, who’s putting the box back, and he feels embarrassed. Caught out. He knows that Cas didn’t mean anything by it. Even if it sounded that way. The muted surprise, like, why would Dean bother having four controllers, when the only other person who’s ever around is Castiel? 

Cas isn’t like that. He probably doesn’t even know how to be like that. But Dean feels uncomfortable all the same. A little edgy.

“Is the game more challenging,” Castiel says, “when there are more players?”

“Shut up,” Dean tells him. It’s meant to be a joke. But it comes out a little harsher than he intended, and Castiel looks up, surprised.

\--

At the theater, Dean and Tracy are nearly done with the sets. They're… interesting. The play itself is interesting. Chuck had once confided in Dean that most of it was from a dream he’d had, a _lengthy epic kind of thing, you know_. That had sounded about right. It’s kind of a ghost story, kind of a love story, kind of barely clinging to sense at all. 

But with the graveyard set basically finished, Linda’s saying that it might be a wrap for the two of them, unless any emergencies come up. It’s a surprise, if Dean’s honest. He’s gotten used to coming here. Gotten used to seeing everybody, talking with them all, hanging out with Charlie more regularly. 

“You’ll both have a free ticket to one of the shows, of course,” Linda says. “And a plus one, if you want.”

“Hey, thanks,” Dean says. He feels better, then. It’ll be cool to see what everyone's come up with. And Cas is going to be psyched. Cas is all about Chuck’s weird play. He’s always asking about it when Dean gets back from the theater, listening as Dean describes the stuff he’s built, the scenes he’s watched. Cas watches him kind of raptly, when Dean talks, like the whole thing is this great story that Dean’s sharing. 

And then Dean realizes what he’s doing. 

He realizes that he’s thinking about inviting _Castiel_ to the play. Asking his goddamn genie to be his plus one. The dude who is literally obligated to hang out with him. That’s where Dean’s at right now.

It twists something in his chest, tight and strange. Something that maybe hadn’t been doing too great anyway.

It’s not like he’s forgotten that Cas is a genie. It’s just that sometimes, maybe, he does. Sometimes Cas is making them coffee in the morning, or he's watching TV when Dean gets home, or he's talking about Wash again, who is inexplicably his favorite Firefly character. Sometimes those things are happening, and Dean might forget. Just for a moment. That this whole thing is a temporary deal, that Cas is actually expecting some wishes from him at some point.

Cas will probably be gone by the time the play’s showing. Dean will get his act together soon, he’ll figure things out, and that’ll be the end of it. Dean with like, a new place, a vacation, a beach house, and Cas off granting someone else’s wishes. 

Maybe Castiel is already wondering what the hell he’s waiting for.

\--

Dean has a tiring week. He’s had a couple of tiring weeks, really. He texts Sam and gets back, _Busy I’ll txt you ltr_. And then nothing else. He texts Charlie, and she calls him to rant about how swamped she is, and to say, “Next week? Next week, ” a couple of times. And work gets intense, Roman liking their original project so much that he wants to expand. It’s great for the company, and it also means that Dean’s working more, working later, spending basically all his time on Roman’s stuff. So there’s that. He wouldn’t have time for the theater, he figures, even if they did still need him there. And he’s had no chance to go to the Roadhouse, or even to show Cas more decent shows, more video games. They’re stuck midway through Firefly, they haven’t even started Portal. Sometimes Dean gets home and Cas is out, busy with whatever he does when Dean’s not around, and Dean’s too exhausted to wait up, to even figure out where he’s gone. 

He gets home on Friday night and walks by Cas, walks right into his room. Door closed, suit off, bed. 

“Do you want to go to a diner?” Cas asks the next day, out of nowhere. He's watching Dean with this weird intensity. “For lunch. One of the ones with pie.”

Dean laughs, a little. “Yeah,” he says, even though he’s pretty drained, not exactly in the mood. “Okay, sure.”

Cas doesn’t always have food. Dean keeps saying that he can more than stretch to another meal when they’re out, some extra Poptarts in the morning or whatever. But it doesn’t always have an effect. He’s never sure if it’s entirely about trying to save him money, or if it's just another weird Cas thing. Sometimes the guy wants two burgers for dinner, sometimes he wants nothing for three days. Dean just goes with it, lately.

“I get that the Roman deal’s a good one,” he’s saying now, pointing a fry Cas’ way. They’re in their usual diner, a booth in the corner, and Dean’s been mowing his way through fries and a cheeseburger. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was. “I get where Victor’s coming from. But it’s basically soul-destroying, dude. My soul is basically destroyed.”

“Your soul’s fine,” Cas says, dismissively. Dean blinks. 

“Uh,” he says. “Okay. Not exactly what I meant.”

“You’re overworked,” Cas says. “And dissatisfied with your job.”

Dean stares at him. “Excuse me?”

“That’s what you meant.” Castiel takes a drink from his milkshake, which is bright pink and ridiculous. “Isn’t it?”

“I,” Dean says. He can’t seem to think of the rest of that sentence. He can’t seem to think what to say at all. “It’s just this project, man,” he manages at last.

“Oh,” Castiel says. “All right.” But he looks at Dean strangely. Uncertainly.

“What?” Dean says. And then, quickly, “Look, whatever. Next week’s going to be better, anyway. The Roman stuff’s wrapping up. Kind of.” Not really. Not much. He glances away. Frowns. 

“That’s good,” Castiel offers. Cas, Dean has learned, is not very good at lying. He gets kind of weird about it, he forgets how to operate his face. Dean doesn’t look at Cas’ face right now.

“Yeah,” he says, instead. “Hey, by the way, I’m probably going to go see Charlie later. So you have fun, you do what you do.” He drums his fingers against the tabletop, looking down at the remains of his lunch.

“Okay,” Cas says, quietly.

\--

Charlie and Dorothy are away that weekend, visiting Dorothy’s family. Dean forgot about that.

He leaves the apartment anyway. Cas is in the spare room, and for some reason, even though Cas’ door is closed, even though he’s quiet in there, it makes Dean feel like he still needs to head out. It’s annoying. He’s annoyed.

He goes to the Roadhouse and takes a seat at the bar. It’s busy, a little loud, the music not as good as usual. Dean keeps his eyes on his drink.

“You okay there?” 

He sets his jaw, then looks up. There’s a lull, and Ellen’s come his way. 

“I’m good,” Dean says.

“Good to hear. You’ve not been by, lately.” She says it in a friendly way, for Ellen. Like she’s not judging. 

“Busy,” Dean says. “Work’s busy. Theater stuff. And I’ve got – uh.” _A roommate_ , he doesn’t say. He doesn’t have a roommate. “This whole project going on. Roman Enterprises.”

“All right,” Ellen says. She’s frowning a little, and Dean should’ve gone somewhere else, probably, somewhere he could drink in peace. “Well, don’t overdo it, now.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Dean says, and she raises her eyebrows.

\--

“Hey, Cas,” he calls, when he gets in. But even before he’s finished the words, he can see that the door to the spare room is open, nobody is inside.

All right then.

Dean makes his way to the couch, takes off his jacket, and crashes down across it. After a moment’s thought, he rolls sideways, planning to watch TV for a while. 

The remote’s all the way across the room.

Dean lets out a sound of pure frustration. He thinks about getting up, but the idea makes him angry. Things are making him angry, lately. He knows that. There’s something irritable scrabbling at the corners of everything he does. Meetings, overtime, grocery shopping. Seeing Cas.

He’s had enough to drink that he accidentally remembers the feeling he got when Cas smiled at him. The stupid Mario Kart smile.

Whatever, Dean thinks. Jesus Christ. He lies on the couch and grits his teeth, and eventually he falls asleep.

\--

He wakes up, and he knows it’s early. His head isn't great. Nothing is particularly great. There’s a blanket over him. Dean frowns.

It’s the weird patchwork orange one, lumpy and ugly, the one Bobby gave Dean and Sam when they got their own place. Possibly his idea of a joke. These days, it just stays folded up on the chair in the spare room. Dean blinks slowly down at the blanket, confused. Then he pushes it off, fast, so he can go throw up.

Afterwards, he's kneeling on the floor in the bathroom. He’s still in his jeans, in his t-shirt from the night before. His head is killing him. 

He didn’t even have that much to drink.

He thinks, it isn’t fair. 

There’s a creaking sound, then, and everything inside Dean just curls up in shame. Because Cas is behind him, now. He just knows it. He closes his eyes. He kind of wants to cry, actually. How fucking stupid.

“Dean?” Cas says. 

“I’m fine,” Dean says. There’s a brief silence.

“You’re sick,” Castiel replies at last, sounding unsure, even though it’s pretty clear, really.

“Hungover.”

“Oh.”

Dean’s about to tell Cas that he can just go, he can just leave Dean to it here, when there’s another creak, and he realizes that Cas is already going anyway.

Which makes sense. Dean’s a mess right now, and they’re not – Cas is a genie, he doesn’t need to put up with Dean’s shit. Why would he?

Dean rests his head in his hands, because why the hell not, at this point. Then he hears that same floorboard again, that same creak. Then soft footsteps, getting near, and Castiel’s hand is on his shoulder. Dean goes still. He hadn’t realized how warm he was, how flushed, until the relative cold of Cas’ hand. It’s cool even through Dean’s t-shirt. Dean thinks suddenly of the lamp again, of the coldness of the bronze. Cas pats his shoulder, awkwardly. Dean opens his eyes. Cas is holding a glass of water, offering it out to him.

Oh. Right. That’s where he went.

“Cas,” Dean says. Croaks. He takes the glass.

He drinks, probably too fast and too much, because the water is cold, and it's just really good right now. Then Cas sits down. He kneels right down on the bathroom floor by Dean, like that’s something perfectly normal, totally okay. And Cas says, “You’ve been angry.” Then he draws in a breath, and says, “Unhappy.” Like he’s correcting himself.

“Cas,” Dean says again. He sets the water on the floor. He stares at the glass. Rests one hand against the tiles, steadying himself. The tiles are cool to the touch, but not in the same way that Cas was. _Pat my shoulder again,_ Dean thinks, like an idiot. 

Castiel says, levelly, “I wanted you to know, if my presence is a problem, I can return to the lamp until you’re ready to wish.”

Dean’s head jerks up at that. He looks at Cas, and Cas looks back. He’s got his poker face on. Dean can’t read anything from him, can’t see anything but a slight clenching of his jaw. But Cas had said that like he'd been practising it. Like he’d been thinking it over.

“Do you want to?” Dean says. He’s croaky again, but that’s nothing compared to the rest of the morning, so he lets it go. “Do you want to go back in?”

There’s a long silence. He sees Cas swallow. “That’s not,” Cas says. “That isn’t relevant.”

Dean shakes his head. “What?” he says. He’s confused, making his way to incredulous. But then he thinks of Cas that very first night, standing immobile and silent, waiting for Dean to speak. Cas’ strange looks when Dean started offering him food, started saying he could just hang out, he could do whatever. The hesitation, the uncertainty. “Cas,” Dean says. “Dude, come on, tell me. Do you want to wait in the lamp?” 

Cas’ eyes have gone a little wide. He isn't moving, and Dean feels like their gazes are locked together. Cas looks almost _scared_ , he realizes, with a breath of surprise.

And then Castiel shakes his head, very slightly. He looks away. 

“Oh,” Dean says. “Okay.” He’s a little puzzled now. He clears his throat. “Well. I don’t want you to, either.”

He sees Cas blink at that. “But,” Cas says, frowning. “You’ve been angry.”

"Uh," Dean says. He sighs. He isn’t good at this. It’s no wonder he doesn’t have a real roommate, doesn’t have a plus one. It’s no wonder he’s building fake graveyards to hang out with people. “Not at you, dude. I know I – maybe I kind of act like it, sometimes. But it’s not you. It’s just.” He pauses. He thinks, nope. No. “Work," he says. "It’s work. Like you said. I probably need a break, that’s all. Vacation time. I wish I could just road trip for a while, you know? Like - ”

“Dean – ”

Cas’ back snaps straight, sudden and jolting. His eyes are bright, his mouth slightly parted.

“ _Cas?_ ” Dean says, a little high-pitched, and then he realizes, he realizes what he’s said. “Oh, fuck, I – no, no, wait,” he says, but Castiel’s gazing blankly forwards, eyes full of light. There’s a crackling in the air, there’s energy, like a current.

And then it’s gone.

Cas slumps forwards. Dean’s kind of stunned, kind of freaked out, but he manages to reach out, to grab Cas’ shoulder, steadying. Cas looks up at him. His eyes are just blue, now. He’s out of breath. 

They stare at each other in silence. 

In the living room, Dean’s phone begins to ring.


	5. Chapter 5

Dean’s bags are almost packed, and Cas is hovering in the doorway to the living room. 

Dean’s been pretty busy all day. He’s been kind of a flurry of activity since the phone call from Victor. The call had been fun: Victor offering Dean a sabbatical, explaining how it’s part of a new company initiative, fostering creativity and _joie de vivre_. Then, Victor apologizing for saying _joie de vivre_ , and apologizing, a little more confusedly, for calling so early on a Sunday morning.

“Don’t sweat it,” Dean had told him.

The initial shock’s worn off now, the panic at using a wish fading into the realization that it’s actually worked out pretty well. And now there’s this whole new edge of excitement, of anticipation. It’s caught Dean by surprise, how much he feels it. It’s kind of like he’s been sleepwalking, and something’s suddenly jolted him awake; everything’s all clear again. Everything's all bright.

It’s been a long time since he had a vacation. 

He did some Googling, at first, some road trip searches, just because he needed to do _something_. And then he gave up on that and unearthed a map from the hallway closet. He looked at all the states, at the rivers and lakes and mountains, the green and blue, white and brown. He stood at the kitchen table and he could feel the whole country around him. The world expanding out, busy and full outside of his apartment, outside of his office and his route to work. It was like Dean had forgotten that, somehow. And now he’s remembered.

Since that moment, he’s been packing and he’s been thinking. He could cross the entire country. Check out Area 51, go fishing somewhere nice, go see the World’s Dumbest Ball of Twine. Anything.

Dean zips up a duffel bag. He looks up and Cas is still hovering in the doorway. 

He’s been doing that, Dean realizes. Hovering. Since the phone call.

“I can’t control it,” Cas had told him afterwards. Dean was in the bathroom, rinsing out his mouth, brushing his teeth. Cas had talked while Dean was trying to brush. “I can’t stop a wish, even if it’s accidental. It’s not possible.” Castiel had looked at him with wary eyes, his arms held stiff at his sides.

“I get it,” Dean had said, around his toothbrush. “It’s cool.” 

Castiel had blinked.

He’s been hovering ever since. 

And Dean needs to buy a few things, maybe, but he’s got the basics. There’s nothing he can’t pick up as he goes. So, really, he could just go. Right now. He could just head out.

He laughs, for some reason. He feels kind of stupid, filled with this sudden happiness. _I’m free_ , he thinks, like an idiot. He grins up at Castiel, and Cas stares at him for a long moment, then smiles back. Kind of tentative, though. Kind of unsure. 

And something clicks.

“Dude,” Dean says. “You know you’re invited, right? You want to come along?”

There’s a moment where Cas is totally frozen. Like he’s buffering; suspended in time. And then he says, “Oh.” 

“Yeah,” Dean replies. “ _Oh._ ” 

It doesn’t even make sense – Dean’s in too good a mood to make sense right now – but it seems to do the trick. Cas smiles again. He glances away, almost nervously, but he’s totally smiling. And Dean is vaguely aware that the morning had been kind of humiliating, that it was definitely not Dean at his best. But right now he can’t exactly bring himself to care. And Cas doesn’t care about it either. Dean can tell. Cas isn’t thinking about what a chump he’s been saddled with, what a loser he’s stuck with here. Cas is, in actual fact, _smiling down at the ground_ right now, and Dean doesn’t know quite what to do with that. 

“Should I bring anything?” Castiel asks him, practical but also a bit bewildered, and Dean still can’t stop smiling. 

“Whatever you want, man.” 

He watches Cas nod, once, and then Cas steps out of the doorway and walks back into the spare room. 

Dean hasn’t actually been in that room since Cas took up residence. He’s kind of assumed, without actually thinking about it, that the room’s the same as it’s always been. Nothing changed. Now, he looks at the door with interest.

It doesn’t take long. Cas walks back out pretty soon. 

He has a tote bag. 

It doesn’t look very full. But it’s a tote bag, one that Dean has never seen before, and it has, in loopy black calligraphy, the words, _Never trust anyone who has not brought a book with them._

“Uh,” Dean says. “Where’d you get the bag?”

“The library.”

“The library,” Dean echoes. _The library?_ Cas squints at him.

“You get a free tote bag with your library card,” he says. “I don’t have a duffel bag.”

“Oh,” Dean says. “Right.” He doesn’t say, The _library_ -library? But he’s kind of thrown.

“Well. When are we going?” Castiel asks him, totally failing to sound casual about it.

\--

Dean’s done his share of road trips. He’d had some with Sam and his dad, way back when, although those journeys have turned into hazy, kid memories, the kind where Dean’s not quite sure what’s real. He remembers a weird store, dream-catchers hanging on the walls, lot of tiny clay pots. There’d been this cool little glass bird, a long orange beak and blue wings, that Dean’s dad hadn’t bought him. He remembers a length of highway, too, one that lasted hours, that stretched on and on forever. But he’s pretty sure that’s only because he’d been promised a Burger King at the end of it. And he remembers sitting in a booth, football on a TV at the bar, Sam telling him over and over, I’m _bored_ , Dean. I’m _tired_. 

Dean thinks they moved in with Bobby pretty soon after that.

He road tripped with Sam later in life, too: the summer before Sam went to college. That had been good, and stupid. Endless dumb arguments over the music, and the biggest fallout of the trip over who’d left the peanut M&M’s at the last motel. Dean can still hear the total fury with which Sam had hissed, "There’ll be more _everywhere_ , Dean. M&M’s are in _all kinds of stores_." And that had been the breaking point. That had been when they’d started laughing instead.

During college, there’d been a bunch of road trips with Charlie, a lot of them with Dorothy and Aaron along too, sometimes Jo and Ash. They’d been to cons, they’d gone LARPing, and once they’d gone to this awesome lake. Dean remembers floating in the water, sun overhead, Charlie and Dorothy laughing nearby. Aaron sitting at the water’s edge with the cooler, a beer waiting for Dean when he got out. Dean remembers being really happy.

It feels like a different life. That person, that Dean, feels like someone else. Someone he remembers, but won’t ever get back to again. 

He hadn’t realized before now that that matters to him. He likes that Dean. He likes who he’d been back then. He thinks of his current life, of the endless work and uncertainty. And he thinks that he might’ve forgotten, somewhere along the way, to pay any attention to who he is now.

\--

Dean’s driving, and Cas is riding shotgun. The sun’s already sinking down ahead of them, and they’ll probably stop for the night earlier than Dean would like, but that’s okay. 

Cas, beside him, isn’t like Sam, flipping through a guidebook, reading stuff aloud. He isn’t like Charlie, singing along with Dean and the radio, loud and happy and laughing. Cas is quiet and alert, and he’s looking out the window. All the time, his head moving as he tries to see the trees and billboards and random stores, the people in the other cars, everything all at once. Dean sees him get a weird look from a guy in a Volvo, and he sees Cas look back with interest.

Sometimes Dean forgets things. He lets them slip, lets them fall away into the background, unimportant when they might actually matter. He’s been forgetting with himself, he thinks. He’s been letting himself slip. And maybe he’s been forgetting with Cas, too. Mario Kart and pizza with the genie, with the magical dude who’s who-knows-how-old, who's been granting wishes for a long time before he met Dean. Cas could be ancient, and he treats Dean’s offers of food like something special. He’s fascinated by this highway that’s just a little ways out of the city.

“Cas,” Dean says, and Castiel turns to look at him. “You see much of the world, with all your genie-ing?” 

Castiel blinks. He does that thing where he looks at Dean for too long, and Dean does the thing where he looks back. 

“Kind of,” Cas says, eventually. He turns back to the window. He glances quickly behind them, like he’s worried that he’s going to miss seeing the billboard for Disney on Ice, or the family arguing in the sedan. Dean’s chest hurts a little, at that. And after a moment, Cas looks straight ahead, at the sunset, the dark pinks and reds and oranges running through the clouds, and at the cars all driving towards it. He adds, “Not like this.”

And Dean decides, right then, that they’re going to the ocean.


End file.
